Sir Robin of Walter
by SaintAugustana
Summary: Robin spends an evening in a tavern with friends, becomes drunk, and slanders the good name of Robert Loxley. His foster father reacts accordingly. AU one-shot. Warnings for NON-SLASH cp/spanking/corporal punishment of an adult.


**Author's Note: This is pretty AU. Takes place whilst Robin Longstride is living in Loxley as Sir Robert Loxley – Robin spends his evening with his merry men in a tavern, gets drunk, and embarrasses his foster father with rash actions and slurred words.**

** We're coming in the next evening, after Robin has slept off his stupor. Walter desires a word with his "son."**

"How many times, Robin, must I ask you to call me 'Father'?"

Robin was about to retort, but the use of his real name caught him off guard. He knew what Walter was trying to do, not that he didn't _think_ of the man as sort of a father figure, but not so much as to scold him for his actions. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake.

"I am continually honored by your request, my Lord, but-"

"This has become more than a ruse to you, Robin," Walter continued, and despite his blindness knew Robin was having trouble meeting his piercing blue gaze. "And so to me."

Robin shut his eyes. "I admit I behaved in a way unfitting to your son's name and... memory," he breathed.

"Indeed, you did," Walter agreed. Robin looked up. "But my son was not a man without his own faults, temptations, and desires, and it was a marker of our strong bond that he confide these in me without fear I would outcast him."

Robin faltered. "Sir, I, I don't even belong here."

"That is where you are mistaken, my son."

"What would you have me do?" he entreated desperately.

"Behave like the admirable, honorable man that you are and do not cower behind your fear and your shame. Expel them from your mind."

"And if I cannot?" he whispered.

"Then allow me to be your father, and accept the consequences of your foolishness."

Robin was a bit stung by these words of scolding disguised as good advice. He did not have a chance to question them, however, when Walter spoke again.

"No son of mine was ever too old to accept his father's discipline and forgiveness. No amount of pride nor power could break the bond of love between us, and I do not intend to disband such a tradition now."

"Discipline, sir?" Robin whispered.

"Robin, in that canister on the hearth there are multiple items. Choose one and bring it to me."

Robin was confused, but swallowed and paced over, locating the tall cylinder and lifting its lid.

His next breath hitched in his throat and his gut gave a wrenching churn. In the canister was an assortment of walking canes and rods, some thinner, some thicker than others. When he realized Walter's intent a half-second later, he contemplated replacing the lid and slipping out as quietly as possible in hopes the older man wouldn't hear him, but he gathered his wits and selected the thickest cane of the lot, a maple stick with a curved handle carved in the shape of a lion, and brought it before Walter, placing it gingerly in his open palms.

Walter fingered it a moment, recognizing it quickly as his most sturdy walking stick.

"You must be harboring quite a bit of guilt," the man mused.

Robin faltered. "I have been unrighteous in the name of false idols, I have murdered women and children, and I have slandered your name. My... father's name. I deserve everything I get."

Walter only nodded, gesturing toward a cushioned bench in the room's off-center. Swallowing back bile, Robin leaned over it with minimal hesitation and much resolve, shifting a bit to make himself as comfortable as he could get, which wasn't hardly.

He heard Walter approach from behind, but had long since abandoned his qualms about the man's ability to 'see' what he was doing. A few more tense seconds dripped by, but Robin didn't dare look up.

Finally, the first stroke fell, and Robin had to bite back a gasp. They continued, smacking down upon his thinly-clad backside, one stripe after another. Being a man who preferred to hold things in, Robin remained quietly stoic, gritting his teeth behind his lips, only wincing in pain. Each stroke made him shudder over the stool, made him think about... everything.

He'd never been caned by his father. His father had never had the chance.

He'd never been caned at all. Whipped, yes, but for military insubordination, a punishment more a formality than a gesture of forgiveness. It certainly wasn't as personal, and for some reason, he remembered that all-over back-and-body pain hurting a lot less than this.

Perhaps his emotions were clouding his perception. He cursed them silently before opening his eyes, horrified to find his vision blurry with tears. Walter continued to cane him. The smacks left thin stripes behind that stung mercilessly. Robin wanted to scream out loud. _Why does this hurt?_ He'd been shot with arrows, stabbed, fallen off rooftops, broken bones, fallen unconscious, and been drunker than Little John and Will and Allan combined, but nothing compared to this.

Finally, the dam broke. Robin lost his control and just cried. And miraculously, Walter stilled his arm for a moment.

"Robin, you must understand," he began, "that there is nothing you can do that will stop my forgiving you for it."

"No." he commanded, his voice gravelly. "I deserve this, I deserve it. It's less than what should be my punishment. I shouldn't be allowed to know forgiveness or happiness or anything good in the world after the things I've done."

Walter reeled back and dealt out a stroke heftier than all the ones before it, and Robin almost bit his tongue in half failing to suppress the yelp.

"If that's what you think, my dear son, we've made no progress at all."

And the caning resumed. What little Robin had left in resolve was quickly dissipating. He squirmed and even began to protest. "I took part in the slaughter of innocent people, women and children! Entire lives I've destroyed."

"With no regard for your own," Walter interrupted. "You forget to mention that you did those things out of loyalty to something you truly believed in at the time."

"It was my choice," he whispered.

"Yes, and you are only a human man who makes mistakes like any other man. The only difference is that you refuse to atone for them and move on."

"I do- I do atone," he choked out.

"By berating yourself for being happy and rejoicing with your friends for life's daily triumphs. By getting so drunk you can't possibly be responsible for anything bad that happens. There are better ways to lose control. You view your successes as failures simply because they aren't. You are a powerful man, Robin of the Hood, a symbol of peace and justice, but even you cannot change the past. Let it go. Let it go or I will cane you every night, or until I see that you do."

Robin had no retort to this, only sobbed helplessly. "I... I can't," he pleaded. "Ah!"

A particularly sharp smack caught him in the thighs and he whimpered.

"You can. And you will."

He managed to cease his tears long enough to complain that Walter was blackmailing him.

Walter stopped the caning once more. "You're right, Robin. I cannot make you believe anything your heart is set against believing. I cannot make you whole once more. I cannot."

Robin glanced over his shoulder. Walter was lowering the cane, which, Robin realized with a mixture of horror and relief, was a rattan rod much, much thinner than the walking stick he'd chosen originally.

"You... you changed it," Robin stammered. "Why did you ask me to choose one if you were just going to change it?"

Walter caressed the rod with nimble fingers. "Yes, you made a decision, all on your own. You harnessed your love for me into a desire for forgiveness, despite your fear of what I would do to you. The decision was never yours to make, but you made it, and the result was not what you intended. It was out of your hands." He gave Robin a sad smile.

The archer pulled his knees off the hard tile floor and rose unsteadily to his feet. He dropped his chin to his chest out of respect, nodding slowly, breathing heavy. His backside burned painfully with a deep sting that would linger for a day or so, but wouldn't bruise and wouldn't scar, like a mistake leaving a temporary imprint before fading into non-existence.


End file.
